Jack Sheppard is a match for Jonathan Wild, any day. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness.
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